


'Twas Grace That Led Me Thus So Far

by rachel6141997



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Catholic!Molly, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Molly goes with Sherlock on a journey over the rainbow, Post Reichenbach, Roman Catholicism, Subtext, This is neither a beat on the church or a come join us as we sing hymns around the campfire fic, bamf!Molly, not literally over the rainbow you dolts it's a euphamism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-23
Updated: 2012-11-29
Packaged: 2017-11-19 08:15:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/571116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rachel6141997/pseuds/rachel6141997
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And 'tis grace will lead me home.<br/>_____________</p><p>Sherlock needs someone.</p><p>Molly is the only one left.</p><p>Angst and healing ensues.</p><p>____________</p><p>A post-reich fic based on the premise that Molly accompanied Sherlock on his mission to destroy Moriarty's web, with a surprise twist of Catholic!Molly.</p><p>PLEASE READ NOTES BEFORE YOU SKIP THIS FIC OVER ONE!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which There Is Coffee

**Author's Note:**

> Ok.
> 
> Right. Finally! The promised Sherlolly fic! I told you I would get to it eventually, and here it is!
> 
> And now for the hard part!
> 
> So, in an ideal world, I would NOT have to write this, but sadly, this isn't an ideal world.  
> To clarify: I absolutely, completely, refuse to condone Church-bashing. Not my cup of tea.  
> I absolutely, completely, am not writing a "come hither and sing hymns around the campfire" fic either. Also not my cup of tea. I am not trying to convert my readers, nor will I convert Sherlock, who is quite happy at his atheist campfire, thank you very much. (At least, I don't think so! You never know where the fics will take us, but as far as I've gotten into it, it seems very, very out of character, even in my wacked-up head canon. Sherlock is very stubborn, and would probably have a major issue with the whole "faith" thing.)
> 
> At first, there will be very little mention of it at all, but as events unfold, you will see how Molly's faith affects her decisions and her feelings about what goes on, and her eventual relationship with Sherlock. This isn't about the Catholic faith, but rather about how it affects the characters and events of my story.
> 
> I am deeply sorry about this rather awkward disclaimer, but unfortunately, I can't be sure that the mention of Catholic stuff won't put people off, because religion is one of those things that people can get really touchy about, and I want to avoid any flame wars, thank you very much with some sugar on top, please.
> 
> Again, apologies.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy.
> 
> Remember! Comments feed the author!!!

Her hands trembled as she turned her key in the lock. She slipped inside, shutting the door behind her and leaning back with a heavy sigh, eyes closed. Safe. Alone. Free at last form the day’s crushing burden.

 

“Molly?” Her eyes flew open and she gasped. He was standing in front of her, an uncertainty in his manner and bearing echoing the uncertainty in his voice, a lack of confidence she had never heard before the events of the last few days.

“What are you doing here?” She wished she could take back the words when she saw him flinch; she hadn’t meant to sound so accusing.

He swallowed visibly before saying, “Molly… we need to talk.”

 

Molly shut her eyes briefly as the fear and stress rushed back in.

But she followed him into the kitchen anyway.

 

***

 

She clutched her coffee― milk with no sugar― and repressed a bubble of hilarity. They were finally having coffee, and it wasn’t romantic in the slightest, even if he did know her preferences without asking.

“I would have made tea, but you need the caffeine,” he stated, and Molly shook her head in amused disapproval― even emotionally and physically drained, he couldn’t help deducing her.

“Well?” she asked tiredly. She wanted nothing more than to crawl under her covers and hide from the world and from everyone and from Jim Moriarty and from a certain pair of piercing blue-grey-green eyes. He shifted in his seat.

 

“Molly,” he started, then stopped, running a hand through his hair. He sighed. “There’s two paths you can take right now,” he said at last, grimacing. She lifted one eyebrow, and, reluctantly, he elaborated. “You can continue as you are, working at St. Bart’s― Mycroft would ensure you didn’t lose your job. After all, your access to the lab was ordered by your superiors and the police, and no one really knows about the body parts…” he trailed off.

“And the other?” Molly felt relieved to know she could keep her job, but she couldn’t relax until she heard the second choice. Knowing him, it would be something horrible that she couldn’t resist.

 

“You could come with me.” She stared at him. He wore his usual mask of indifference, but the fact the he offered― nay, asked― spoke a great deal as towards the contrary.

“Come― with you?” Some very small part of her sniggered at the unintentional innuendo, but most of her was intent on his eyes and the blasted uncertainty that roped her in and drew her out.

“To destroy Moriarty’s organization. The spider may be gone, but the web is still very much there. I― I still need you, Molly.” He looked down. “I’m afraid,” he said, the words torn out of him wretchedly. Molly _knew_ he was manipulating her. She wasn’t stupid. But she wasn’t blind, either. And some of what he said was true.

 

He _was_ afraid. He _did_ need someone to go with him, to hold him together― but. That person would not have been her, except that she was the only one left. And that was only because she was the pathologist at St. Bart’s. If she hadn’t been, she would have been left behind to grieve as well.

 

“Molly, before you decide, you need to know what each option will entail. If you stay here you must tell anyone and everyone who asks that I am dead. You won’t have any contact with me, no way of knowing if I am alive or dead. There will be guilt at your deception, and you will likely suffer as everyone moves on, but you can’t because to you I am not dead, but you will never know for sure.” _So this is how he means to do it,_ Molly thought with a trace of bitterness. _By poisoning the easy choice for me._ He watched her, expressionless, before continuing. Her thoughts were probably plastered over her face for the detective to read.

 

“If you come with me, however, you will not be able to tell anyone where you are or what you are doing. You will have no contact with your friends and family. You will be traveling under a false identity, and very likely be in constant danger. You could be injured, starving, dehydrated or ill, with no guarantee of adequate medical care. Molly―” he stopped, frowned, and continued on grimly. “It’s not an easy choice, Molly. I’m sorry.”

 

 _No, you’re not._ But even though she understood the consequences, the heartache of the days ahead, there really wasn’t any choice at all. Surely he knew that.

 

But did he? There was genuine fear in his eyes, and she doubted he could have faked the lack of confidence in his bearing.

“Well, then, Sherlock,” she said, placing her empty cup upon the table. “I guess I had better start packing.”

 


	2. In Which There Is Cancer (Sort of)

It wasn’t that simple of course. There were plans to be made, identification papers to be― did it count as forged if it was issued by the government?― _procured_.

 

And then the hard part. Resigning from St. Bart’s, and saying goodbye. Two days ago― the day after she told Sherlock she’d join him― Molly had sent out a blast message to her friends and family, asking them to come to her home, because she had news to share.

She hadn’t said it was bad. It was hard enough without having to fend off inquiries beforehand.

 

And so they were all there, in her living room― the last room to be cleared. She had wanted to present some semblance of normality, but even so, it was looking sparser than it had ever been since she first moved in.

“So,” Molly said as she stood before them, feeling like a witness before the court. She had no one to stand besides her and help her through. “I― I guess you’re all wondering why I asked you here today. I should probably tell you it’s not good news.” She laughed nervously, bitterly, and looked down. _I’m a mess._ “I was going to wait longer to tell everybody, but― but―” She struggled thickly, “but then― then he… he” she couldn’t get the words out, couldn’t say them for fear they would come true.

“The Sherlock jumped.” John’s voice was gentle, the words soft and comforting and filled with pain. The guilt and grief rose up, crushing her, because if anyone, anyone at all, had the right not to say his name, had the right to break down and fall apart, it was John, but he felt the need to try and comfort _her_. Her eyes welled, a tear slipped down her cheek as she nodded.

 

“Yes. Then Sherlock jumped, and there just didn’t seem to be any point in hiding it anymore. You see,” she began, steadying herself, “Four years back I was diagnosed with breast cancer.” _Truth._ There was utter silence, and she couldn’t look them in the face. “It was noninvasive, in the early stages, not a big deal― I was lucky. There was no reason to tell anybody, to get them worried when a simple lumpectomy fixed the problem.” _Also truth._

She took a deep breath, forced herself to look them all in the eye― the people she loves, likes, admires. Mom, her step-dad Jake, her sister Susan and her cousin Mary. John, Greg, Mrs. Hudson. Sally, Mike. She hated herself for what she had to say now. _Jesus, Lord and Savior, Forgive me._ “And I thought that was the end of it. But then four months ago,” she said, trembling, hands squeezing reflexively around another hand that wasn’t there. “I went for a routine check-up and discovered it had recurred, and spread to my brain.” She squeezed her eyes shut. _Lie_. “The doctors gave me a month, maybe two if I’m lucky.”

 

She looked up, met their eyes. Shocked, stricken, betrayed. Someone started to speak, but she held up a hand, interrupting them.

“I’m so sorry, but I can’t stay here, can’t pretend that everything’s going to be all right. I had― I had money, that I’d saved up, but I’m going to use it to take a trip. I’m leaving Britain; I want to see the world before… before the end.”   _Oh, God, save me. The end. I could_ die _, out there, and no one would know the real reason why. And if I don’t, they might never forgive me. Oh God, help me, please._ She couldn’t hold back the tears, they came and flowed and spilled out.

 

“I’m so sorry,” she choked out, blinded by tears, and then she felt arms around her.

“It’ll be alright, Molls, it will be alright.” Mary’s voice was soft and thick; she was crying too. Then Molly’s parents were there, and Susan.

 

The next hour was agony, because she couldn’t stop crying, and every single one of them, all her friends and family were so supportive. Greg hugged her and told her she was like his sister, and Sally squeezed her hand and told her she deserved so much better― Molly knew she was talking about Sherlock as well as the brain cancer, which didn’t really help, but she appreciated the gesture all the same― and John was just so kind, hiding his own pain.

 

It was bittersweet, to realize that there were still people who cared that she would be gone, that it wasn’t just for show when they begged her to keep in touch, to send letters, postcards, anything. Bittersweet to know that she probably couldn’t and that she was betraying them with every word.

“I just don’t know,” she told them softly, eyes red from crying. “I― I’ll try, but I just don’t know if I can.”

“We understand, Molly,” Susan said. “But if you do, I promise we’ll have Molly Hooper Meetings where we read the letter aloud.” Molly laughed, thinking she was joking until everyone of them vowed the same.

“Thank you so much,” she said at last, when she couldn’t bear it any longer. “Thank you for coming, and just for being here all these years.”

 

They filtered out, one by one, until it was just John and Mary left.

“Molly, do you want me to stay the night?” Mary’s voice was firm, the implication, _I’m staying whether you want me too or not_ unspoken. Molly wanted to say yes, but she couldn’t, not with _him_ currently hiding in her backroom. He was probably bored silly by now. She shook her head, adamant.

“No, Mary. I just want to be alone right now. It’s― I have a lot to think about.” Mary hesitated, torn between wanting to be there and listening to the pleading in Molly’s voice.

“I― alright. If you insist.”

“Thanks for offering, Mary.”

“Molly?” John was hanging back uncertainly, clearly wanting to say something but also not wanting to intrude. Mary glanced at him, then back at Molly, raising her eyebrow so that only her cousin could see.

“Well, I’ll just be going then.” Molly bit back a laugh. It was all just too much. Her cousin thought that she and John had a “thing” going.

 

“Goodbye,” Molly said, giving her cousin a hug, feeling herself start to tear up again. Mary was even closer to her than Susan.

“Goodbye, Molls. I love you.”

“I love you too.” Molly watched her cousin leave, a bitter taste in her mouth, before turning to John, who looked extremely uncomfortable.

“John?” He bit his lip, then forced out the words in a rush.

“Molly, I just want you to know that you did mean… something… to Sherlock. He could be a real arse to you sometimes, but he’s never gone to St. Bart’s when you weren’t there. He hated all the other pathologists.”

 

“Thank you, John,” she said, “It means a lot to me that you came here, and that you said that. He was your friend, more than anybody’s.”

John blinked, and said thickly, “You believe in him too, don’t you?”

“Always. He was an arse, but he was a genuine arse. That I’ve never doubted.” John laughed at that, a real laugh like she hadn’t heard from him in the last few days. Molly vindictively hoped that Sherlock heard her words.

“John… just stay safe. It would just make everything harder if I didn’t know you were going to be alright.” John nodded; didn’t pretend he didn’t know what she was talking about. She was grateful for that.

“I will, Molly. After all, I wouldn’t miss a “Molly Hooper Meeting” for the world. For Sherlock, maybe, but not for the world.” Molly laughed sadly, and they parted.

 

***

 

“You’ve never said much about your family.” Molly jumped, startled to find him directly behind her.

“Sherlock!”

“Why not? I had previously assumed that it wasn’t a good relationship or that they had died, but that is obviously not the case. Why have you never talked about them?” Molly blinked; he was standing quite close to her, an intent look in his eyes.

“I’ve never said anything much to you, Sherlock. You never wanted to know.” She was too tired to be disconcerted by his close proximity or sudden interest in her personal life. He looked taken aback, though whether it was at her words or her tone, she couldn’t say.

 

“Oh. Well. I suppose it would be possible for you to send letters back home, provided you don’t give anything away in them.” Molly wondered at his sudden change of mind, and then thought, _Oh. John. He thinks John will be safer if there_ are _“Molly Hooper Meetings.” Poor Sherlock._

“He’ll be alright, Sherlock, and he’ll forgive you. Although he’ll probably punch you first.” Sherlock stared at her, then nodded slowly.

“We are taking a plane to America in four hours. A taxi in half. I suggest you finish packing, I’ll have Mycroft arrange to finish clearing this room.” She nodded, and wordlessly pushed past him into her room. It was empty except for a suitcase, a box labeled STORAGE and a small assortment of items that she hadn’t been able to decide whether or not to take.

 

She knelt down and looked at them. A broken locket her Dad had given to her before he died, a very worn, battered, three-volume set of _The Lord of the Rings_ , a set of rosary beads, and a photograph of a smiling young man with his arm around Molly. She traced their joined shape with her finger, feeling her eyes smarting. Slowly, she picked up the photograph and let it flutter into the box. _Goodbye, David. There isn’t room for two men who’ve broken my heart on this trip._ The rosary into the suitcase, the book set into the box, and the locket into her pocket. Sherlock had said not to bother with anything of sentimental value, it would just slow them down, but she hadn’t been able to leave her copy of the bible, although Sherlock very likely classified religion under sentiment.

 

Then she took a deep breath, closed the suitcase, and left her flat, locking the door behind her, wordlessly handing it to Mycroft Holmes, not at all surprised to see him.

“Goodbye, Miss―“

“Doctor.” She didn’t know why she bothered, but she took a small perverse satisfaction in watching the eyebrows of the two brothers shoot up in surprise.

“Goodbye then, Doctor Hooper,” he said, with a trace of amusement as he politely shook her hand. Then he turned to Sherlock. “Goodbye, brother…” he hesitated, before leaning in and murmuring something in the younger man’s ear. Molly saw Sherlock’s jaw tighten, and he nodded abruptly.

“If you insist. Goodbye, Mycroft. I’m sure I’ll live to irritate you another day.”

“God forbid. Now, off with you. Into the cab.”

 

***

 

The plane was an average economy class; she was Amy Kate Grant, a British medical grad taking a year on tour, he was her foster brother, John Grant, escorting her. Or so her files said as she looked at them while they sped through the air several thousand miles above sea level.

 

“I’m certified to carry and use a gun?” she murmured, disbelieving. He glanced at her.

“Yes, of course.”

“But I don’t know _how_ to use one.” She kept her voice low. . Sherlock’s expression could only be a mixture of irritation, exasperation, and trepidation.

“Obviously. But you will. I’ll be taking you to ranges whenever we stop; you’ll eventually learn how to handle one. I’d do hand fighting as well, but without a proper basis you’d never learn―”

“I have a proper basis.” He looked at her derisively.

“Classes taken at _Madame Soho’s Self Defense Academy_ because your parents were nervous about you commuting into London on your own when you were a teen? Might handle a drunk trying to accost you, yes, but that is hardly the caliber of men we are talking about here.” Molly gritted her teeth.

“Black belt, Karate,” she bit out, taking pleasure in the small expression of surprise he couldn’t quite hide.

“Really,” he drawled. “Wasn’t in your file; Mycroft would have told me.” She flushed.

“Well, officially, it didn’t happen. Not even my parents knew. I wasn’t actually enrolled as a student, just took lessons on the sly from my uncle along with a couple other students.” She was surprised to see a gleam of curiosity in his eyes.

“Why on the sly?”

“We were girls. My uncle thought poorly of that kind of bias and taught us. There was actually a ring of underground karate teachers who had unofficial competitions for girls. Not today, of course; no one frowns upon a girl wanting to learn to fight now. But twenty years ago that wasn’t the case.”

“I see. Perhaps hand to hand isn’t off the list, though I’ll have to test you first.”

“Obviously.” He blinked at her.

“Yes… _obviously._ ” She smiled, and returned to perusing her files.

 

She had a niggling idea in the back of her mind that this trip would be extremely formative― both for herself and for a certain consulting detective.

“Molly?” John was hanging back uncertainly, clearly wanting to say something but also not wanting to intrude. Mary glanced at him, then back at Molly, raising her eyebrow so that only her cousin could see.

“Well, I’ll just be going then.” Molly bit back a laugh. It was all just too much. Her cousin thought that she and John had a “thing” going.

 

“Goodbye,” Molly said, giving her cousin a hug, feeling herself start to tear up again. Mary was even closer to her than Susan.

“Goodbye, Molls. I love you.”

“I love you too.” Molly watched her cousin leave, a bitter taste in her mouth, before turning to John, who looked extremely uncomfortable.

“John?” He bit his lip, then forced out the words in a rush.

“Molly, I just want you to know that you did mean… something… to Sherlock. He could be a real arse to you sometimes, but he’s never gone to St. Bart’s when you weren’t there. He hated all the other pathologists.”

 

“Thank you, John,” she said, “It means a lot to me that you came here, and that you said that. He was your friend, more than anybody’s.”

John blinked, and said thickly, “You believe in him too, don’t you?”

“Always. He was an arse, but he was a genuine arse. That I’ve never doubted.” John laughed at that, a real laugh like she hadn’t heard from him in the last few days. Molly vindictively hoped that Sherlock heard her words.

“John… just stay safe. It would just make everything harder if I didn’t know you were going to be alright.” John nodded; didn’t pretend he didn’t know what she was talking about. She was grateful for that.

“I will, Molly. After all, I wouldn’t miss a “Molly Hooper Meeting” for the world. For Sherlock, maybe, but not for the world.” Molly laughed sadly, and they parted.

 

***

 

“You’ve never said much about your family.” Molly jumped, startled to find him directly behind her.

“Sherlock!”

“Why not? I had previously assumed that it wasn’t a good relationship or that they had died, but that is obviously not the case. Why have you never talked about them?” Molly blinked; he was standing quite close to her, an intent look in his eyes.

“I’ve never said anything much to you, Sherlock. You never wanted to know.” She was too tired to be disconcerted by his close proximity or sudden interest in her personal life. He looked taken aback, though whether it was at her words or her tone, she couldn’t say.

 

“Oh. Well. I suppose it would be possible for you to send letters back home, provided you don’t give anything away in them.” Molly wondered at his sudden change of mind, and then thought, _Oh. John. He thinks John will be safer if there_ are _“Molly Hooper Meetings.” Poor Sherlock._

“He’ll be alright, Sherlock, and he’ll forgive you. Although he’ll probably punch you first.” Sherlock stared at her, then nodded slowly.

“We are taking a plane to America in four hours. A taxi in half. I suggest you finish packing, I’ll have Mycroft arrange to finish clearing this room.” She nodded, and wordlessly pushed past him into her room. It was empty except for a suitcase, a box labeled STORAGE and a small assortment of items that she hadn’t been able to decide whether or not to take.

 

She knelt down and looked at them. A broken locket her Dad had given to her before he died, a very worn, battered, three-volume set of _The Lord of the Rings_ , a set of rosary beads, and a photograph of a smiling young man with his arm around Molly. She traced their joined shape with her finger, feeling her eyes smarting. Slowly, she picked up the photograph and let it flutter into the box. _Goodbye, David. There isn’t room for two men who’ve broken my heart on this trip._ The rosary into the suitcase, the book set into the box, and the locket into her pocket. Sherlock had said not to bother with anything of sentimental value, it would just slow them down, but she hadn’t been able to leave her copy of the bible, although Sherlock very likely classified religion under sentiment.

 

Then she took a deep breath, closed the suitcase, and left her flat, locking the door behind her, wordlessly handing it to Mycroft Holmes, not at all surprised to see him.

“Goodbye, Miss-“

“Doctor.” She didn’t know why she bothered, but she took a small perverse satisfaction in watching the eyebrows of the two brothers shoot up in surprise.

“Goodbye then, Doctor Hooper,” he said, with a trace of amusement as he politely shook her hand. Then he turned to Sherlock. “Goodbye, brother…” he hesitated, before leaning in and murmuring something in the younger man’s ear. Molly saw Sherlock’s jaw tighten, and he nodded abruptly.

“If you insist. Goodbye, Mycroft. I’m sure I’ll live to irritate you another day.”

“God forbid. Now, off with you. Into the taxi.”

 

***

 

The plane was an average economy class; she was Amy Kate Grant, a British medical grad taking a year on tour, he was her foster brother, John Grant, escorting her. Or so her files said as she looked at them while they sped through the air several thousand miles above sea level.

 

“I’m certified to carry and use a gun?” she murmured, disbelieving. He glanced at her.

“Yes, of course.”

“But I don’t know _how_ to use one.” She kept her voice low. . Sherlock’s expression could only be a mixture of irritation, exasperation, and trepidation.

“Obviously. But you will. I’ll be taking you to ranges whenever we stop; you’ll eventually learn how to handle one. I’d do hand fighting as well, but without a proper basis you’d never learn―”

“I have a proper basis.” He looked at her derisively.

“Classes taken at _Madame Soho’s Self Defense Academy_ because your parents were nervous about you commuting into London on your own when you were a teen? Might handle a drunk trying to accost you, yes, but that is hardly the caliber of men we are talking about here.” Molly gritted her teeth.

“Black belt, Karate,” she bit out, taking pleasure in the small expression of surprise he couldn’t quite hide.

“Really,” he drawled. “Wasn’t in your file; Mycroft would have told me.” She flushed.

“Well, officially, it didn’t happen. Not even my parents knew. I wasn’t actually enrolled as a student, just took lessons on the sly from my uncle along with a couple other students.” She was surprised to see a gleam of curiosity in his eyes.

“Why on the sly?”

“We were girls. My uncle thought poorly of that kind of bias and taught us. There was actually a ring of underground karate teachers who had unofficial competitions for girls. Not today, of course; no one frowns upon a girl wanting to learn to fight now. But twenty years ago that wasn’t the case.”

“I see. Perhaps hand to hand isn’t off the list, though I’ll have to test you first.”

“Obviously.” He blinked at her.

“Yes… _obviously._ ” She smiled, and returned to perusing her files.

 

She had a niggling idea in the back of her mind that this trip would be extremely formative― both for herself and for a certain consulting detective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! So the stuff about karate was completely made up, I know nothing of the sort. But it made me laugh, so, what the hell.


	3. In Which a Detective Has a Hunch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BAMF!Molly is happening.
> 
> Oh, happy happy joy joy.

“New York… Concrete jungle where dreams are made of…” Molly sang softly as the speaker overhead crackled and announced they were arriving in New York, New York, New York. Sherlock glanced at her but said nothing, for which she was grateful. If he had, she might have slapped him.

 

Sherlock was most decidedly not the ideal traveling companion. He was restless, antsy in a cramped economy class seat. He often hummed snatches of classical music to himself, fingers tapping as though seeking out his violin. Any attempt at conversation was met with a brusque dismissal.

 

And, during one horrible part of the flight, he stared at her.

For. Three. Hours. Straight.

 

How, she wanted to ask, was she supposed to sleep or even _think_ , when he was staring at her like that? But the cruel and unusual punishment was over― at least until the next time they boarded a plane.

 

As they slowly made their way out of the plane, Molly felt knot of excitement unfold in her midsection. She had always wanted to visit New York City― the Big Apple, symbol of America― but had never gotten a chance to. Now she was her, with Sherlock Holmes, no less― _And,_ she thought dryly, _very likely in danger of losing my life._

 

Well, you couldn’t have everything you wanted.

 

 _Still,_  she thought wistfully, _it would be nice to be a normal tourist._ Molly was glad to be free of the plane, stretching her legs after the eight hour flight. Sherlock too, looked pleased, or at least as pleased as he ever was, before John came and made him smile so easily.

_Before John._

With his best friend gone, would Sherlock regress, forget what it meant to care?

 

Frankly, it was a terrifying thought, one that took the edge off her excitement. Sherlock seemed to notice her apprehension, because he looked at her and opened his mouth, before shutting it abruptly and turning away, the oddest, indefinable expression on his face. She suppressed a flare of irritation.

“What?” He turned to look at her, face bland as he raised one eyebrow. She scowled back. “You were going to say something. And don’t,” she added scathingly when a familiar expression of disdain started to form on his face, “even think about trying to pretend you weren’t. Just because I’m not as damned smart as you are doesn’t mean I’m _blind._ ” The she suddenly remembered who she was speaking too, and a bright flush spread across her face as she waited, gut clenching, for him to say something horribly cutting in its truth.

 

But he didn’t. He just blinked at her, mouth slightly parted. Then he closed it and chuckled, a deep rumbling sign that stirred an answering  response from deep within her. She grinned, because who’d have thought that it would be she of all people who would manage to surprise Sherlock Holmes. The he surprised her― not that that was a new occurrence― by grinning back.

 

They stood there, grinning like a pair of school children, until Molly heard a sharp, irritable voice at her elbow. “I don’t suppose you would be the pair of Brits I’m told to take home.” Molly started and turns to see a short man standing next to her in a suit and tie, scowling.

“Mycroft sent _you?_ ” Sherlock’s voice was incredulous, edged with an odd, unfamiliar note. She glanced at his face and realized with a painful jolt that it was delight. The little man’s scowl deepened.

“It that how ye greet someone who knew ye as a wee babe?” Sherlock’s lips twitched.

“Yes. Although I must admit it makes a nice change to see you. I’m used to talking to people who aren’t three foot six.”

“I’m three foot _eight_ ,” he growled back. Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow.

“Not without those shoes you aren’t.” The dwarf cracked a grin at last.

“Never could fool ye, Master Sherlock. Not since ye was a lad, anyways.” He nodded and added, “And it’s mighty good to see ye as well, even if it’s only on a temporary basis.”

 

“Temporary basis?” Molly echoed, feeling somewhat lost. Sherlock’s expression, one almost akin to a smile, slipped and returned to neutrality as he remembered her presence. Molly felt a pang at more evidence―as though she needed it― of just how much she didn’t really “count”. The dwarf looked mildly embarrassed.

“Forgive my lack of manners, miss. Name’s Hunch. Brian Hunch. Me and my line have known his for centuries. There ain’t never been a Holmes without a Hunch,” he said, with such obvious pride that Molly couldn’t help smiling.

“Dr. Molly Hooper, but please, call me Molly. Pleasure to meet you,” she said proffering her hand. Hunch eyed her briefly before nodding curtly and shaking it.

 

“Aye, I daresay yer a good sort. Can’t neglect my job and let Master Sherly mix with the wrong type, you see,” he said by way of explanation.

“Hunch, I assure you I am fully capable of judging the suitability of my companions without your assistance,” a glowering Sherlock said, although Molly had a sneaking suspicion that his indignation was more at the revelation of his childhood nickname than at Hunch’s unnecessary approval.

“Well,” Molly said cheerfully, before Hunch could say the biting comeback he clearly had ready and thus starting a full on war in the middle of the airport. “Since we’ve all been introduced and since I’ve apparently met the committee’s standards, shall we catch a cab? Or a subway― I think that’s the American term.” Sherlock blinked at her, and Hunch grinned.

“Oh, aye, yer a right lass indeed. And a cab, yes. I dislike subways. Sounds wrong in the mouth.”

 

***

 

Even walking to the cab pick up area was a novel experience for Molly. London was hardly homogenous, but here in the heart of New York, the diversity in everything from people to clothes to food to language was mind boggling. It wasn’t even the presence of Spanish and French and Chinese that threw her so much as the sheer difference in the English language. She’d heard American tourist speak, of course, but that hadn’t prepared her for how some of them spoke with a southern drawl, others quickly, biting off the ends of their words, and still others emphasizing their vowels. It was bizarre, too, to hear “sweater” and “cookie” and “ass” and quite a few other unfamiliar words as they fought through the crowds.

 

Molly was so distracted it wasn’t until they were almost to the cabs that she noticed the man in the black coat. Her breath stuttered and she nearly froze. He had been on the plane, the row across from them. She remembered watching him, on the flight, during one of the periods where Sherlock ignored her, trying to deduce him― or, at least, her poor imitation of it, anyway.

 

When you send an hour staring at someone, they tend to stick out in a crowd― if it wasn’t for her lack of attention, Molly would have noticed him long before. As it was, she suddenly realized he had been within hearing distance when they met Hunch. It hadn’t at all been suspicious at the time, since they had been by the baggage train, but now? Perhaps she was paranoid. Perhaps it was coincidence, perhaps he had merely wanted to catch a cab.

But if that was the case, the why would he have changed his coat from a long grey one to a shorted black one? Why switch his coat, unless he was following them and wanted to minimize his chance of being recognized?

 

“We’re being followed,” she murmured to Sherlock as he held  open the door of the cab. He glanced at her, and gestured for her do get in. With some reservations, she obeyed.

“I know,” he said as he settled across from her and closed the door. She blinked in surprise and nearly missed his next words. “I did not think you would notice, however.”

“You knew?”

“Obviously. I wasn’t too busy ogling the city to notice we had a tail. Hunch should not have used my name in the airport, there were probably men stationed all over looking for anything suspicious―”

“No,”  Molly interrupted, surprising herself. “He was on the plane.” Sherlock’s mouth opened slightly.

“How― No. Why? Why did you notice him.” Molly flushed, and he raised an eyebrow.

“I― I― Iwastryingtodeducehim,” she mumbled quickly, ducking her head. She was met by a soft laugh.

“Molly Hooper, you are full of surprises.”

 

By the time she looked up, he had moved on, frowning pensively.

“This is a new predicament. We shall have to improvise.”

“God forbid,” Molly muttered. Sherlock scowled, but Hutch grinned.

“Oh, I like this girl, Master Sherly. Ye have good taste.”

“Will you please stop calling me that!”

“No.”

“What?” Sherlock looked stunned, and Molly fought the urge to snickering.

“No. I’ve called you that since ye was a lad, and I’ll continue till ye’ve grown some.” He made a vague gesture downwards, and Molly Hooper was privileged to see Sherlock Holmes actually blush. She wondered at what he meant before recalling a snippet of something John Watson had once said on one of the We Have To Live With Sherlock Holmes Nights Out. _Oh. Sherlock’s as much of a virgin as I am._

 

She grinned to herself although Sherlock’s growled return to planning.

 

Sherlock, for once, knew nothing about something most people knew everything about.

 

_Oh, joy._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right. So, several homages to various things here.
> 
> Hunch:  
> To Hunch from P.C. Wrede's Mairelon the Magician  
> To Hagrid from well, duh, J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter  
> To Butler from Eion Colfer's Artemis Fowl.
> 
> I just couldn't resist the thought of a tiny Butler. Sorry.  
> And no, in reference to the chapter title, no I really, really couldn't resist that play on words. I am NOT sorry.
> 
> Also- the chapter titles, which I've edited- homage to Diana Wynne Jone's Howl's Moving Castle.
> 
> And, I thought this was fairly obvious, but just in case- the fic title is a reference to the hymn Amazing Grace.
> 
> Finally, the song referenced in the beginning is Alicia Key's New York.
> 
> Oh, and in explanation- I have no Britpicker (or a beta, sadly) so anything of that sort is either very basic picked up from books and fics, or batshit.
> 
> And as far as I know, it's not horrible offensive to say dwarf- if it is, please, tell me in the combox and I'll fix it. 
> 
> Thanks, and sorry for the long notes. :)

**Author's Note:**

> Right. SO, hope that wasn't too bad, and again, I apologize for the lengthy forward.
> 
> Anyways- something I want to know for future reference.
> 
> I am debating making this a purely Molly pov fic, but I am also tempted to include chapters from other chracter's pov, namely Sherlock, plus some glimpses at events back in London.
> 
> But I want to know what you think, so please, feel free to comment.


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